takes its toll, one's foolish pride
by solitariusvirtus
Summary: In the wake of Daenerys Targaryen's ascension to the throne the realm is shaken to its !
1. i

i

Blood gushes from the wound and the white of the bone shines through. Jon's wrist pulses painfully and the weight of the shield grown less and less manageable by the moment. And there truly is no need for him to.

He calls out for Viserion and wonders where the beast is. Through the endless stream of falling snow he can barely see a thing. And the frail lights all around him are slowly going out.

The one he is protecting lets out a weak gasp.

Jon glances down at this boy, barely older than himself. He thinks that in another life, thy might have grown as brothers.

It makes him sad, and sick to the stomach to think that it should end like this.

ii

Viserion lets out an angered roar and a stream of flame pours out from his mouth, drowning the sea of decaying bodies that have gathered all around with the fall of darkness.

"We have to move," Jon says, forcing Aegon to his feet.

"Leave me," the other says, in what he must think is an act of heroism.

But Jon is not leaving anyone else to fend off danger on their own. He has left so many people he could have helped.

"Say no more," he snaps, dragging the other's weight along. This is not the brother he grew up with. But he is the only brother Jon has left.

"We'll both die," Aegon protests. "Save yourself."

"I'll save you as well."

iii

"You are not sane," his brother declares as the wound is splintered and bound tightly. "How is it right in your mind that three should die instead of one?" There is anger there. Mayhap because Aegon is still so very much like him. They both put so much less value on what other say they should value.

Without speaking, the younger of the two lays down his sword and looks at the young maester. Sam Tarly clears his throat. "Better that he saved you, Your Grace. We need all the men we can get."

The truth of it rings through Jon's head. He leaves Aegon to his rest and wonders without into the white storm.

Death is in the air. He can feel its sweet, deceptively comforting breath.

iv

The aunt returns atop her black dragon. But she is not alone. Jon does not find it surprising. Daenerys Targaryen is rarely ever alone, not since the red witch shadows her steps. What is strange is that he has brought with her two faces Jon never though to see again.

Jaime Lannister is visibly trying to protect a bundle of woollen dresses that emits strange little sounds, much like weeping. It has been some time, but Jon remembers well enough the face of Myrcella Baratheon, or rather Waters, as the late Stannis Baratheon named her.

He knows what will follow. But he does nothing.

He is still a brother of the Watch and cannot speak for one or the other side of the conflict.

v

"It's that famed Stark honour," the former Kingsguard jeers at him. "You are all the same, yet you would cast stones first."

Indignation makes Jon's head snap towards the prisoner. Ghost growls. "Have a care with that tongue of yours, Lannister," he says, in as cold a voice as he can manage.

"She is as mad as her father, you stupid boy. He wanted nothing more than to burn everything to the ground. Can't you see it in her eyes, the same madness?" The warning lodged itself uncomfortably within Jon's chest, spearing him through.

He thinks of the red witch and the burnings.

"At the very least make your father proud." And now Jon is unsure of whom Jaime Lannister speaks.

vi

Myrcella looks at him with watery eyes. There is a question in her gaze that Jon does not know how to answer. He hands her a thick cloak and turns away, leaves the chamber and hurries down the stairs to where he knows he is needed.

After all, he has made sure the girl yet lives.

What more can he do for her given the current circumstances?

But this is so very strange. Jon closes his eyes and tried to shake away the feeling of discontentment that presses upon his shoulders.

There is not much more to endure. Or so he tells himself.

And then the memory returns, the memory of a golden knight and broken promises.

He walks away.

vii

"What use would it serve to burn her?" Aegon argues. "She is just a bastard. No more a threat than her so called uncle." It is sound enough. But the woman's face sours. "Jon, is it not so?"

"I cannot take part," he reminds the two of them. At this particular moment. he stops to wonder if it is less reprehensible to know someone's fate and not try to save them, than it would be to actively push that person to such an ill fortune.

Yet broken vows have never yielded positive results. Thus he mustn't break his own anymore than they have already been.

viii

The fever sets in on the fifth day. Sam shrugs helplessly as he grounds the poppy seeds. "It is up to the gods. The wound was deep." And it has also been bound.

Aegon is the cord that holds them all tenuously together. If he dies, Jon fears much for the many lord gathered behind the Wall.

Westeros needs a strong, sound leader.

"Find a way to save him then," he insists, clapping Sam's shoulder encouragingly. |I have the utmost faith in you."

"I shall do my best, my lord." The maester continues with his work afterwards, as Jon finds another scroll to look upon.

ix

Daenerys finds him down, among the shadows. "It is too cold here," she tells him, her whole frame shivering. Accommodating must be difficult. Or mayhap 'tis the fact that this winter is like no other. On the cusp of the long night, all must seem more than it truly is; the darkness is darker and the cold colder. All reaches monstrous proportions.

Human ambition bears no exception to this rule. "Set her free, Your Grace. We need as many hands as are available. If you do not wish her within your sight, let her work with Maester Samwell."

"And have her charm him into aiding in an escape?" she laughs, looking young and incredibly beautiful in the dancing torchlight. "I shan't."

x

The knight burns. Jon cannot see Myrcella anywhere, but he has little doubt that she too bears witness to this barbarity. He resists the urge to move away from the terrible sight and sounds. This is custom, as it was with Stannis Baratheon.

A burning desire to see it all turned to ash; he wonders if that is what motivates his aunt.

Who will check her when Aegon is no longer of this world, Jon wonders. Already his decline has led to this. Jaime Lannister is devoured by flames and for the very first time, Jon's horror is entwined with a sliver of satisfaction.

This frightens him.

xi

It's pity. Jon cannot think of anything else it could be. But she is huddled in a corner, her eyes red and her hair tangled, the scar running along her cheek livid and this stirs him. He enters the chamber and pulls her to her feet.

"Come along," he orders, feeling her fingers clench, instinctively, around his hand. She hurries along after him and doesn't make a sound.

What a strange thing. He has watched her uncle, or father, based on whom Jon would choose to believe, and now he feels a responsibility towards her.

"You are to help Maester Samwell with his scrolls," he says, more to break the silence than anything else.

Her fingers unclench slowly, as if ice is breaking beneath a weight of some sort.

xii

Drogon is flying in the grey skies above them. Myrcella presses so close to him that Jon thinks she might as well melt into him. A scared little child, that is what she is. And he understands.

But this is not the time, nor the place to soothe those fears. Jon hurries both of them along and wonders where Viserion has gone off to. He looks up towards the pitch black dragon and a shiver creeps down his spine.

Then it is time to advance.

Jon leads the young woman down the stairs and takes her to Sam. The maester looks up from his work at the two of them.

"I leave her in your care," he tells his friend.

xiii

Daenerys takes hold o his hand and presses her forehead into his shoulder, her skin exceedingly warm. "I cannot believe that he would die just like that." There is something about the way in which she mourns, something that leaves Jon cold.

His eyes linger on the body. They should burn it soon.

"My brother believed that he was the prince that was promised." Her words startle him. The Lord Commander drags his gaze away from Aegon.

"Mayhap he was right," he allows with a shrug. Not because he does not care, but rather because Jon has long since believed salvation impossible.

"What does one do when the hero is dead?" the Queen questions.

"Find a new hero."

She smiles.

xiv

They burn Aegon upon a great pyre. It is none of the dragons that sets the flame. That would only serve to tear the Wall itself down and then, there will be no defences whatsoever. There are no tears, of course. It serves naught to cry for the dead. They cannot feel or hear or know.

They are without a drop of life.

Jon looks at the sea of people. Has Aegon never reached the Wall, they might have well killed him in Essos or Dorne or any other place. Or mayhap not, of course.

There might have not been even the hope of a hero.

xv

Myrcella catches on to his sleeve and pulls him into the shadows, just around the corner. "My lord, I should like to offer my thanks. Maester Samwell is kind to me." Sam in kind to everyone. Jon pulls his hand arm away gently. "I truly mean it."

"See that you complete your tasks and no ill shall befall you," he responds. Of course Jon does not know whether that is the truth of it or not. The Queen might well decide to rid the realm of this bastard as well.

"I shall," the little lioness promises. There is no smile upon her face and no sign that she is sincere, but the fact that she speaks to him as she does.

Jon never thought he would see the day a lady of high rank would act thusly towards him.

xvi

The red priestess smiles, ruby lips stretching along the white expanse of her face. It looks a blot of crimson liquid. Jon wonders what she sees in the flames. Or rather what she thinks she sees. The only gods are the old gods. They do not forgive. They punish.

The wrath of the gods is upon them and that is what it boils down to.

"We should strike with all our force," Lady Asha Greyjoy argues. "We must strike the heart."

But where is this heart?

"That would lead to our death," a lord form the crowd argues.

"I would ensure our victory."

The Queen holds her hand up and silence befalls them all. "We shall do as I say, my lords and ladies."

xvii

Sam blinks up at him and dries his hands upon his breeches. "She is a hard worker, but I suspect she hasn't much of a choice in this matter." He tells Jon that Myrcella is of help. "Her Valyrian is good. And it gives me time to work on the Old Tongue."

"Then I am glad to have helped." He spies the blonde as she makes her way out one of the smaller chambers and sees that her arms are full of scrolls and parchments.

"My lord," she greets softly, green eyes luminous beyond what they should be.

The torchlight gets caught in her hair. The warm light softens her features.

Jon takes a moment more to gaze upon the lovely visage and then goes on his way.

xviii

"You have disregarded my wishes," Daenerys says. Her pretty face is cast in a thunderous visage that openly shows her dissatisfaction. "I should have you whipped for it. I am your Queen."

"The Watch does not take part, Your Grace," Jon reminds her. "And the Wall follows the laws of the Wall and no others." His calm manner seems to further anger her. He does not budge, however.

If she will allow her feelings to rule her then her reign shall be short and brutal.

"Do not force my hand, Lord Commander. You fight and I rule. This is how our realm functions." Her back straightens.

xix

Satin hands him Longclaw. "My lord, mayhap you should look closer to what is going on within the ranks of our men." Jon looks at the boy with roused interest. "Apologies for speaking out of turn," the young man says.

"No false modesty, Satin." He can barely stomach the lords that do it. His own men acting thusly is unthinkable. "Say what you will."

"The nobility is dissatisfied. There is talk of revolt." The black cloak is handed to Jon.

"There is always talk of revolt." The nobles are never without some issue that has them disgruntled. It is simply the nature of it, is all.

xx

"You will returns, won't you?" Myrcella asks, a sort of desperation clinging to her.

Jon has a moment of hesitation. Promises made to women never end well, not for him at any rate. But what is another lie added to the very many he has spoken up until this point?

"I shall." And if he does not, there is the comfort of knowing in the back of his mind, when he meets his end, that someone somewhere cares.

She places something in his hand, bites her lower lip and gives a slow nod.

He sends her of her way, reminding her that Sam might well need her aid.


	2. ii

i

Longclaw pierces the other's chest and the creature's moth opens, a wide chasm of frost and black where the tongue should be. The momentum results in Jon dropping forth to his knees.

His grip upon the sword loosens slightly as he grips at the thick snow, trying to find purchase and push himself up before an enemy happens upon him.

A weight slams into. Hot, putrid breath streams down his face. Jon throws his head backwards, crashing it into the face of the wight that has though to sinks its teeth into his flesh.

He escapes the clutches of the long departed and rolls out of the way just in time to avoid being drowned in a stream of fire.

Viserion screeches angrily into the sky and dived down, wings spreading around him protectively when it reaches Jon.

ii

Seated atop the hulking beast Jon looks upon the army of ants that crashes in waves. Viserion roars, wings beating a steady rhythm. "Further," Jon urges the dragon, even as his eyes are searching for Ghost.

He can feel the direwolf. He is close. But the dratted snow gets in his way.

Somewhere behind him a man cries out and down below, Ashara Greyjoy is kneeling in the thick white frosty sea, her men all around her.

Viserion greets the incoming group of wights with spearing flames. The band, already a rambling disaster, breaks into smaller groups.

Daenerys and her dragon dive into the fray.

Jon expands his senses to the limit, his mind calling out for Ghost. The scent of blood fills his nostrils and his mind collides into Viserions', an order upon Jon's lips. _Find him_.

iii

The direwolf lies wounded, a snarl curling his lip. Jon runs towards the frail creature and falls to his knees, fingers twisting into silver fur. "Ghost," he calls, to no avail, Red eyes are hazy, as if a mist has rolled over and will not give way.

This is the end. Jon can feel it.

Something crunches behind him and he stands to his feet, whirling around, Longclaw drawn and bloodthirsty

But before him stands a creature the likes of which he has never seen.

Tall and slender with the pales skin in the moonlight, an ageless woman smiles at him, bright blue eyes fixing him with an unearthly stare. She holds one hand out, fingers reaching out for him and the pull leaves him breathless and mindless to anything but the promise he sees there.

iv

With one last effort, Ghost drags himself upon four shaky feet and jumps at the one threatening his master, teeth bared and a wild growl the only warning. He jumps upon his victim, without mercy or fear.

A yelp is set loose as her dark sorcery works its way within him, poisoning his blood.

But fangs meet frozen flesh and tainted blood fills his mouth choking him.

In that moment the direwolf feels a fleeting pressure grazing against his consciousness. Pain follows, the likes of which he has never felt before. It tears him from within and the beast can do naught but whine out long and loud.

And then there is darkness and warmth and something familiar.

The link snaps.

v

His lungs fills with air and his mind drown in rage. Jon plunges his sword within the softness of the body before him, the Valyrian steel tearing through what cannot be human flesh.

Ears ringing with the cries of the creature before him, Jon looks about wildly for Viserion.

The dragon cannot have flow far off.

From within the steely clouds a form drops to the ground and Jon lets out a yell, of pain or victory, he does not know.

Before he can understand, however, his own chest caves under the pressure and he is thrown back, his mind exploding into a sea of nothingness.

He is drowning. Never before has he been so far under.

vi

Daenerys hauls the inert body a shirt distance, but then the black brothers have gathered all around them and they lift Jon upon their arms. The direwolf is taken up as well with much more effort.

The Queen feels a knot forming in her throat.

"You were supposed to protect him," she says. To whom? The direwolf or the dragon? She herself known not. "I had given you my trust."

But she should have known that miracles are figments of stories. Reality is cruel.

"He should have lived." Her eyes stop upon the despondent Viserion.

The anger grows within her.

vii

Myrcella barely manages to hide her sob when the Lord Commander is born within the premises of the small ward and tries not to pay mind to the paleness of his skin. It could be a trick of the torchlight.

But then Ghost is brought in and her heart drops all the way down to her stomach.

She whirls away from the sight, unable to bear it a moment longer and attempts to keep her hand from trembling as she stitches the wound of a soldier.

Thankfully, the man is unconscious and cannot see her tears.

It is better that no one does.

viii

"He is not yet of the other world," Samwell says, fingers still upon Commander Snow's neck. Myrcella looks up from her work, golden locks flying all around with the movement. "I can feel a pulse."

"A pulse?" the Queen questions, her voice seemingly small. But it might be that Myrcella just cannot hear her over the loud beating of her heart.

She closes her eyes and begs the gods not to rip from her this last crumb of comfort.

"Aye, a pulse. 'Tis weak though." But it is there and that is all that matters.

ix

Ghost must burn. Daenerys will have it no other way. Whatever has happened, she known this death was occasioned by the strong bond between the wolf and man. Jon has lost what she has lost in having to put an end to Rhaegal's life.

This creature, however, has died bravely. It did not run in the face of danger.

"The sacrifice must be honoured," she tells her Lord Hand though she is looked at with thinly veiled suspicion.

The red priestess is on her side though. "The Lord of Light will care for this soul." Her mellifluous voice fills the hall.

x

The knife cuts wide strips of cloth and Myrcella carefully peels them away from Jon's skin. She cannot imagine what he has gone through out there, not does she wish to. Instead, the young woman pays her debt to the best of her abilities.

Maester Samwell has already found a deep wound that needs cleansing.

Steam rises above the small wooden bowls of boiled water.

Myrcella bend over to reach the man's other side.

She wonders if this is not some cruel game the gods are playing. Yet the very thought is violently pushed out of her mind by a streak of indomitable optimism. He has survived up until this point.

"You mustn't give up, Jon Snow," she whispers, hoping he hears.

xi

It feels as though the skin of her fingers is being stabbed by a thousand needles. But Myrcella grits her teeth and wrings the cloth until the last drop of water is squeezed out of it. She washes Jon's forehead, wiping at the sweat that has gathered upon his brown.

They say the light coloured dragon cannot seem to find his place now that Jon Targaryen lies in deep sleep.

Nothing seems to have the power to wake him. Not Samwell's knowledge of herbs and potions. Not Daenerys legitimising him. And not Myrcella begging the gods.

Yet he is not dead for all that he sits before the Stranger. There is still hope, as long as the end is not arrived. Myrcella cards her fingers through dark curling hair. She does not know what to say to him now. The young woman can only trust, much like she has always done.

xii

He comes to with a sour taste in his mouth and a distinctive smell filling his nostrils. Jon doesn't realise the exact moment when he crosses from unconsciousness to consciousness, nor even when he is no longer caught in between worlds, hanging by a mere thread.

There is sound and scent, but more than that there is light, it shimmers somewhere just beyond his reach. The young man fights to open his eyes. He wants to see that light, to truly see it, not just its pale shadow.

Ever so slowly, he manages to reach his goal, lids fluttering lightly.

There is gold before his eyes, soft, liquid-like gold running in waves across his chest.

It's hair. The thought is slow to come. Golden hair, soft looking, and the treads lead him to a downturned face and a sleeping maiden.

Myrcella. He recalls her name.

And it feels strange that he does.

xiii

Then comes the gap, that break in the chain which leaves him short of breath as memories come flooding in. He tries to shut the door down upon them as small hands pull at him, trying to set him upright. But Jon recalls blood and Ghost, a ghost now truly, and he feels like a child in need of comfort.

Warm arms wrap around him and tears slide down his cheeks.

He clutches back, his grip too tight by the way the female breathes labouredly. But he cannot bring himself to care. All Jon knows in this moment is that he is lost and he needs to be found somehow, by someone.

Myrcella is the only person here.

xiv

Samwell ties the bandages tighter. "If you move about too much you'll tear the stitches, he warns." He is the one who tells him about the Queen's decree, Ghost's funeral and the heavy losses. Jon doesn't know what to think.

"The attacks have grown fewer and far between. I think that if a few of these brave men who have fought here join the Night's Watch, we might do without the Queen and her dragon." Jon startles at the words.

"Viserion has flown away for some reason. He has yet to return," Sam clarifies. "We though, I mean, I did, that it might be because you were injured."

xv

The Queen lifts herself from her seat and walks towards him with open arms. Jon allows the embrace more out of respect for the very public appearance they are making. "Your Grace, I have heard you wish to leave for King's Landing."

"And you are to come with me," Daenerys orders. After all, he has died once. "It is time for a new Westeros to be born."

"The threat is not yet gone," he argues. How can a fledgling kingdom withstand such an attack as the one that would follow? "We must stay here and fight until the end." Until the long night is past.

xvi

"Leave her here, the girl," his aunt urges him. It is rather clear that she has not changed her mind as far as Myrcella is concerned.

Jon looks up from the scroll he's been reading. "She cannot remain at the Wall." And the Lannisters have refused to take her in. There are only so many options that Jon has. "As Warden of the North, I am responsible for those on these lands."

"You shall leave her at Winterfell?" There is hope in those words.

"Nay." Jon knows very well what sort of disaster he risks. "I shall take her with me."

xvii

Myrcella's hand pauses midstroke and she gazes at him. "If my lord so wills it," she says after a moment of silent consideration. Her eyes fall back to the garment she is occupied with.

"Only if we are in agreement. I do not mean to force you." It stays on the tip of his tongue to address her as _my lady._

Where would she go at any rate? Myrcella stands to her full height. "I agree." This is all she has left now.

How the wheel of fortune has come full circle.

"Good. Then it is to be done as I've said." 

xviii

There are whispers as soon as Viserion returns. Jon, now no longer having Ghost, draws close to this beast. The bond is different, very much so, but there are still certain similarities and that is enough for him.

They ride for King's Landing. He and the Queen atop their dragons and the others on horseback and in wagons or wheelhouses.

Jon wonders briefly what it would have been like where he to have found Viserion first. The thought is pushed away as swiftly as it was formed. It does not matter.

Viserion cannot take Ghost's place no more than the Queen can claim to be his family.

ix

"You should wed her," Margaery Tyrell tells him.

They say she used to be a great beauty, but war destroys everything. Jon looks briefly at the short cropped tresses and the slashes decorating her skin. "She would be safe. I think that is what you want, after all."

"I cannot." He does not lie. At this moment he cannot.

"As you will, my lord. I shall keep her close by me then." Margaery smiles and Jon sees the beauty now. "If you change your mind," the rest trails off.

He tells himself that he shan't change his mind. There are many reasons not to.

xx

Revenge and justice may at times meet. But where the first dominates the second, much trouble is to flourish. "You are their Queen," he tells his aunt, not without a hint of anger. "They have a duty towards you, but before that you have a duty towards them."

"Do not presume to speak to me in such a manner," she snaps. "I know very well what I must do."

She doesn't. Jon won't argue, however.

The blades of the throne glint menacingly as the Queen leans back in her seat. "You may retreat."

Later during the night, the shine takes on a red tint.


End file.
